Orange Is The New Black Novels & Stories

She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. I don’t know what you have been through, but we will help you a little. Julia POV Today my rounds are early. And guess who is my partner? Yes. James. Things are still a little awkward but I can’t ignore him. He is my partner and there’s nothing I can do about it. I have a quick shower and get dressed in black leggings and a black sports bra with a crop top on top. I tie my shoes and put my hair into a ponytail. I need to get some breakfast before rounds.

(DAHLIA POV) The guy who helped me was nuts. He let an old woman off with extorted money. She’ll repeat it every chance she gets and scam as many gullible people. Tsk. Does the old woman no longer have a sensible job to cling to from scamming?

Stood outside of the large grey LAPD building and taking in the fresh air, staring at nothing in particular. The damp air inside the building was making me nauseous. How do the cops survive in there? Or was it just me? My phone suddenly buzzed in my front jean pocket, jolting me out of my daze. I took it out and looked at the caller ID. Louise boutique. I had made a purchase a few days ago for a black Kawaii dress. It wasn't anything special but just in case something comes up. And what do you know, it was the right timing.

The cell block echoes with distant shouts and the clang of metal doors slamming shut. It's late lights dimmed to that dull orange glow that never really lets you sleep. I'm in for embezzlement five years handed down last month still fresh enough that the orange jumpsuit chafes my skin and the thin mattress feels like concrete. Name's Lena twenty-eight blonde hair tied back in a messy ponytail body toned from years of yoga but soft in the ways that drive men crazy. Full tits slim waist ass that fills out the uniform just right. I've kept my head down avoided the drama but tonight everything changes.

Night had fallen over the city like a heavy shroud, but inside the reinforced walls of the Metropolitan Women’s Correctional Facility, time moved differently. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in sterile corridors, casting harsh shadows on concrete floors stained with decades of desperation. Isabel Chen-Blackwood paced her small cell, the orange jumpsuit clinging to her sweat-dampened skin. The viral footage of Adrian’s brawl with Ethan played on loop in her mind, each punch and roar a fresh knife twist in her gut.

The holding cell door clangs shut behind me and I stand there for a long moment, feeling the orange jumpsuit scratching against my skin. The fluorescent light overhead never seems to turn off. It hums like it’s mocking me. I sink onto the thin mattress and take a deep breath. The woman already in the cell doesn’t look up right away. She’s older, maybe late forties, with hair pulled into tight cornrows and arms crossed over her chest. Tattoos crawl up her forearms bearing names, dates, and a small cross. She finally glances my way.

“Get up. Time to go to your cell. Real criminals waiting for fresh meat like you.” She yanked Nina up by the arm. Pain shot through. Nina followed on weak legs. The hallway smelled like urine and old food. Metal doors clanged. Voices shouted from cells. “New girl! What you in for?” One woman in a cell laughed mean. “Orange looks good on beggars. Come here, princess. I’ll teach you how things work.” Nina’s mind spun. This is it. No one coming. No father. No help. She thought of the bench. The kind man with the coins. The bus ride with hope in her heart. All gone. The orange gown itched on her skin. Too bright. Too real.

"That node holds the liquidity for the entire Asian market. Locate the backup." "Backup... not found. Mirror drive... not found." The red pixel multiplied. One became ten. Ten became a hundred. They were eating the screen like digital termites. The door to his office burst open. It wasn't Oryn. Oryn was retired, pruning roses at the Fortress. It was Nova. She wasn't wearing a suit. She was wearing black cargo pants, a band t-shirt, and combat boots that squeaked on the marble floor. Her hair was tied back in a messy bun with a chopstick.

Yes, she says she’s speaking for others, but we’re here at corporate and she’s the only one raining on my parade. Therefore, instead of reaching out to Stephen, I keep my arms crossed over my chest. “Stephen, I’d let you hold my hand, but if someone saw us, I’d probably get reprimanded on proper supervisor-assistant behavior. Here’s the thing, orange washes me out. My complexion is just too fair. It’s a known fact that blondes don’t do well in bright orange or pale yellow, for that matter. Since most prisons use orange jumpsuits, yellow currently isn’t my concern.”

Tuesday Night. NYPD Detention Facility, Manhattan. The holding cell smelled of bleach, old sweat, and despair. Selene sat huddled in the corner of the metal bench, her knees pulled up to her chest. Her grey suit the one she had worn to court thinking she would walk out a free woman—was wrinkled and stained. Her hair was a matted mess, the elastic tie long gone. She wasn't the polished executive anymore. She was just Inmate 8940.